Paperclip, Duct Tape, White Cane
by BrailleErin
Summary: After he is blinded in the episode "The Negotiator," MacGyver gets his sight back. What if he didn't? Some adventure, some angst, lots of rocks thrown at our favorite mullet-wearing hero, and lots of new MacGyver cleverness thrown in.
1. Chapter 1

MacGyver stood in front of the hospital entrance, savoring the smell of the morning air and waiting for the van that was supposed to pick him up. The orderly had delivered him to the front door in a wheelchair, which felt oddly disconcerting to be driven through the muffled halls in that way. Once outside, though, he was glad to stand and stretch his back, letting the breeze ruffle his still-too-long hair.

He was equally glad to be shed of the bandages and having his eyes uncovered and open felt more like normal than he'd been for weeks. His view of the road in front of the hospital, obscured by the scars, looked dim and shadowed, but not black. The bright sun on his face filtered through in some measure, and he enjoyed its light, however unuseful it seemed for getting around.

A car pulled up to the curb, probably the van he expected. He bent, and picked up his duffel, waiting for the driver to identify himself.

Without speaking, someone opened a door to MacGyver's left and a hand grabbed his elbow. He was half guided, half shoved, into the back seat of a car, his hand sliding on vinyl, his other still clutching his duffel. The door slammed shut, and a second later, the passenger door in front of him also closed.

It was odd, he thought, that the man hadn't said anything. Also, he'd been imagining a van, but this was most definitely a sedan, and the two men in the front seat hadn't said anything. A prickle of fear ran along MacGyver's spine, but he sat still and waited.

The car swung away from the curb and pulled out into traffic.

"Name's MacGyver," he said by way of introduction. The men in the front seat still said nothing. A cigarette lighter clicked.

The car turned a quick corner, and MacGyver braced his hand against the seat.

Information, he decided. That's what he needed most of all right now.

He swept his left hand across the seat, and discovered and untidy pile of food wrappers, a flashlight, and a sweater. Hmm. The flashlight had possibilities.

Shuffling his feet to the side revealed more food wrappers, and something that clanked. Tire chains. Definite possibilities there.

But were the guys driving the car actually just his rehab teachers? Only very quiet?

The car slowed, and pulled into a place that blotted out all of the scarce light in MacGyver's vision. He waited in the darkness, tense and listening. The noise of a garage door closing was followed almost immediately by the sound of his own car door being opened.

"All right, nice and easy," a voice growled at him, and the hard muzzle of a gun was shoved into his side. MacGyver winced. "We know you can't see any more, so you'll be no trouble. Just come along quietly."

MacGyver resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They would see whether or not he could cause trouble, but not yet. He would bide his time.

Who were these guys anyway? The gun pretty much ruled out rehab teachers. He doubted they transported students at gunpoint into echoing garages like the one in which he found himself.

The goon pushed him forward, and he stumbled over a length of pipe along the floor. Thankfully, they hadn't tied his hands, apparently assuming that blindness was enough to keep him docile. He regained his balance, just in time for another shove in the back. He hit one shoulder on the metal frame of a door, and staggered into what sounded like a much smaller space than before. The door slammed behind him and a lock clicked.

MacGyver stood still for a moment, listening intently. He was alone in the small space. No breathing or rustling of clothes sounded near him. The footsteps outside receded.

To MacGyver, the room was pitch black, although there could have been a little light he couldn't see. It really didn't matter, and after weeks under bandages, the dark seemed more familiar than it ever had before. He'd never been afraid of the dark anyway. Heights, now, that was another matter.

-2 weeks earlier-

MacGyver followed Pete Thornton out of the courtroom, through a quiet carpeted hallway, past the hushed telephones of a receptionist's desk, and into the brilliant sunshine of a spring afternoon. His eyes closed involuntarily against the light, and he put a hand to his forehead.

"This is really a coup for the Phoenix Foundation," Pete was saying. "You really did it this time, MacGyver. Exposing the fraud in the environmental analyses was one thing, but hiring Deborah to kill you? Good grief."

He stopped and turned toward Mac.

"Hey. You okay?"

Mac stood where he was, just outside the glass doors of the courthouse, his hand shielding his eyes, his other hand clenched.

"Yeah, yeah," he said through clenched teeth. "Just give me a minute."

He waited, mentally pressing against the searing pain, willing it to subside, but it got worse. He felt his heartbeat thudding in his ears as the ground began to rock dizzily beneath his feet. Pete's voice faded, swallowed up in the blackness of unconsciousness.

He woke in a hospital bed.

He wondered vaguely if it was the same bed he'd woken in a week earlier when he'd narrowly missed being blown to smithereens by Deborah's bomb. It could be the same bed. Or it could be one down the hall. It didn't matter. The soft bustle of hospital sounds were the same.

He reached up and touched the cotton bandages on his eyes, held in place with criss-crossed strips of tape. Maybe this was the same day, not a week later. His eyes hurt, but somehow he didn't really care much.

Morphine. They'd given him morphine.

His head felt unbearably heavy and he let it sink into the pillow and drifted off on the hazy nothingness that pain meds brought.

Later, he woke again, the fog of morphine lessened, but the pain in his eyes intensified. His head rolled on the pillow, trying to find a place where the agony was less.

"How are you feeling?" The voice at his bedside made him jump. He hadn't known anyone was there.

"Hurts," he replied, his mouth dry and cottony. Both hands clenched as the pain traveled into his skull and down his neck muscles. He retched suddenly, and rolled onto his side to vomit over the side of the bed.

As he did so, he seemed to see bright sparks of stars and pinwheels of light erupt in the blackness under his bandages. He pressed his eyelids closed as tears seeped out between them.

"This should help," said the nurse ambiguously, and soon the morphine fog enveloped him again.

Much later, he struggled to the surface of his tossing sea of consciousness again. This time, he was aware of people in the room with him. Quiet voices spoke with one another, and a sleeve rustled. He took a ragged breath and lifted his chin slightly.

"MacGyver?" Pete's voice asked from his left. "Are you awake?"

Mac turned his face to the left but couldn't get his parched mouth to form words. His entire being felt dry, shriveled. He took another deep breath.

"You gave us a scare, there, Buddy," said Pete, a touch too heartily. "The doctor says you developed an infection in your corneas. They weren't healing properly. Anyway, the infection gave you a fever, and it was touch and go there for a while."

"It looks like you'll be all right now, though," said another voice from the foot of the bed. Nikki. Great. Just who he needed to see right now. Or not see. Whatever.

Mac opened his mouth like a dying fish. He managed to scrape out a word, "water."

"Oh," Pete said. "I'll ask the nurse."

Mac heard retreating footsteps and more muffled voices. The footsteps returned, and Pete said apologetically, "they won't let you drink water yet. Something about you puking all over the monitors. But they gave me some ice chips for you."

Without hesitation, Mac opened his mouth like a baby bird and held the ice in his mouth, feeling the cool moisture soaking into his dry tongue.

"That's good," he rasped.

"Well, we'll let you get some rest," began Pete, but Mac stopped him with a gesture, hampered as he was by IV lines.

"Thanks for coming," he managed. He wanted to say more, but his head was swimming again, and the pain on the surface of his eyes felt like shimmering fire.

He vaguely heard Pete and Nikki leave, and the nurse enter. She set supplies on his tray table and began checking his pulse, her fingers cool on the skin of his wrist. When she had checked his temperature and blood pressure, she began peeling the tape off his bandages. He winced as it tugged on his skin.

"Just changing your bandages, Mr. MacGyver," she said apologetically and continued to peel. In spite of his eyes being closed, the bandages were stuck to his face with dried mucus, and he gagged at the smell, and the pain of her light touch.

"Let me get you a dish this time," the nurse said wearily, and she held one ready for him. He used it, then sighed deeply as she gently sponged his eyelids, each stroke causing searing pain.

Thankfully, she finished, and rebandaged his eyes again, while he slipped into an uneasy sleep.

When he finally awoke, he knew immediately that his fever had broken. He lay in the cool bed, enjoying the sensation of well-being that washed over him like a wave. Footsteps clicked across the floor, and a female voice said, "Mr. MacGyver? I'm your doctor. I think it's about time we check on those eyes."

"A lady Doctor?" he thought groggily. "That's pretty cool."

She leaned over his bed. Her starched white coat crackled, and she smelled faintly of… was it lavender? He found it soothing.

The sensation of well-being stopped abruptly as the nurse began peeling tape again. He wondered if he'd have any eyebrows left when this was over.

At long last the tape and bandages were off. He heard the nurse step over to the blinds at the window and lower them with a rattle. Remembering the pain of the light outside the courthouse, he felt grateful for her thoughtfulness.

The doctor sponged his eyelids, which were again glued closed. This time, a dull ache accompanied the sensation.

"What can you see?" she asked.

He reluctantly forced his eyelids open, but found now that the dimness of the room wasn't painful. Rather, everything seemed to be in shadow. Objects appeared vague and distorted; shadows that squatted in corners of the room without clear lines or form. He scanned from left to right, trying to recognize anything, but the misty haze that filled the room rendered everything characterless.

"Not much," he admitted ruefully.

The doctor clicked something in her hand. The haze in his left eye brightened, and he flinched.

"Can you see the light?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

She repeated the blast of light in the other eye, which he could also see.

"Any shapes?" she queried.

He looked across the room again. "I-I'm not sure," he admitted.

"How many fingers?" she asked and he looked in the direction of her voice. For a second, he thought he saw the movement of her hand, but it refused to take shape. Instead, a whitish-gray veil hung between his eyes and her hand.

He shook his head wordlessly.

"Well," she said briskly, snapping off her light with finality, "we'll keep the bandages on for a few more days, just to be sure the infection is all the way cleared up."

MacGyver's mouth felt as dry as if he'd swallowed cobwebs. "Will… will my eyes clear up?"

"There's always that possibility," she said, her voice just a little too cheerful.

"Doc," he said, facing her. "Are my eyes going to clear up?"

She paused just a beat too long. "Your corneas were burned, Mr. MacGyver. Instead of healing, they developed an infection, which has caused corneal scarring."

"Corneal scarring? What does that mean?" he asked softly.

"Scar tissue is blocking your sight. There may be the possibility of surgery in the future, once the infection is completely cleared up."

"And that will fix it?" he pressed.

"There is a chance it can be improved," she said hesitantly.

"But…?" he asked, voicing the unsaid word that hung in the air.

"Your eyes are susceptible to more infection, and with damage this severe, it's unlikely that surgery will help entirely. There is also risk of detached retina."

"So, that means…?" he asked, although he thought he knew the answer.

"You will likely always have some level of visual impairment," she admitted gently.

He sat quite still, letting this news wash over him. Visual impairment. Blind. Why didn't she just say it? He was blind. Would always be blind, to some degree. Terrific.

He sucked in a lungful of air.

"Mr. MacGyver?" the doctor asked, as if he'd somehow managed to evaporate and she wondered where he'd gone.

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "I got it."

"Are you all right?" she asked, setting a cool hand on his shoulder.

What did he say? No, he wasn't all right. He was blind. He didn't have any interest in being blind. Still, as usual, his pragmatic side kicked in.

"I'll be okay. Thanks, Doc."

She patted his shoulder in sympathy, and left the nurse to the task of replacing the gauze and sticking more tape all over his eyebrows. Darkness settled over him with the gauze, and he lay back on the bed, wondering if all of the last half hour was a drug-induced hallucination.

He hadn't known he drifted off until the sound of the door opening roused him. Stiff male shoes tapped their way across the floor toward the bed.

"Pete?" he guessed.

"Hi Mac," Pete Thornton confirmed his identity, but his voice had a catch in it. "I, uh, saw the doctor out in the hall."

"Yeah." Good friends didn't need words.

"Yeah," Pete echoed blankly. "Hey, don't worry about your job. I'm placing you on…"

MacGyver cut him off. "Disability? Retirement?" he asked bitterly.

"I was going to say leave. Just until you've recovered and gone through rehab." Pete sounded gruff.

"Makes me sound like an addict in recovery," muttered MacGyver, and to his surprise, Pete snorted.

"You'll be back in no time," he said.

"Let me guess. At a desk." MacGyver couldn't keep the anger out of his voice.

"Like you would ever be happy behind a desk," argued Pete.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

At this moment, a desk didn't sound too bad. He decided to take stock of his situation. Surely there was something nearby that would be useful. He just had to find it.

His tennis shoes stood firmly on smooth, hard concrete. He decided to start behind him in exploring the room, since he knew roughly where the door was. As he expected, the metal door was locked, although it also had an inside lock. That was interesting, he thought, and pressed the button.

The door was in the corner of the room, and the walls were also metal. His foot clanged against something, which turned out to be a wastebasket half filled with rough paper towels. A quick sniff revealed hand soap and automotive grease. Hmm. Flammable.

Continuing past the wastebasket, he found a toilet paper holder, empty, and beyond that, a toilet. Next to the toilet was a sink. Trying the faucets, he discovered that the cold water faucet worked, and the hot one did not. Above the sink hung a cracked mirror, and next to that was the wire frame that held the roll of paper towels.

Under the sink were the usual pipes, a grimy pile of magazines, a large wrench, an additional roll of paper towels, and back toward the back of the floor, a cigarette lighter. Handy.

He felt in his pocket for his Swiss Army knife, but remembered that he'd put it in his duffel, which of course he didn't have now. He wondered what the goons had done with it. If it was still in the car, he might be able to find it later.

The next obvious thing to check was to look for windows or vents through which he might escape. This search proved fruitless, however, as the small room had neither window nor vent on the walls or ceiling. The fourth corner, did have a shelf with junk on it: cat litter, for soaking up grease, some paint, a bucket and a bottle of ammonia.

By now, he was back at the door. Unlocking the knob again, he set his shoulder against it. Nothing. The knob turned, but the door wouldn't budge. Was it a hasp? A bar? He tried to recall the sound as the door had shut, but the click could have been the latch, or an exterior padlock. He tapped on the door and listened to the tone. Near the center of the door the tap sounded muffled. He guessed it was a bar rather than a hasp, and he turned back toward the shelf.

Taking down the empty plastic bucket, he removed the wire handle and began to straighten it like a coat hanger. One end he bent into a hook, and then began to feed the wire through the crack between the door and the frame. Like a slim-Jim, he thought wryly.

Halfway up from the floor, the wire encountered resistance and he delicately explored it from both above and below. It appeared to be roughly the size of a two-by-four and made of metal. He adjusted the size of the hook he had made and went at the bar again from above.

In short order, he'd lifted the bar high enough to be free of the metal hooks that held it. Gently, carefully, he eased the door open until he could slip his hand through the crack and grasp the bar, so it didn't crash to the ground, alerting the thugs. He set it silently on the ground, upright, against the wall, and slid out along the opposite wall of the cavernous space.

One of the biggest drawbacks to blindness, he soon discovered, was that he had no idea if someone was watching him. He supposed that if there was, a hue and cry would be raised, so he let out the breath he was holding and inched farther along the wall.

A huge, blurry rectangle of impossibly bright daylight shone from a distance, and from that and the noises, he decided that the garage door had been left open. If he could get to it, that would be his way out. Walking straight across the concrete floor seemed like suicide, however.

He listened again for voices. They came from his right, high up and muffled. Probably some kind of office, he supposed. Chances are there were windows overlooking the workspace floor, so he'd need to be clever. He edged to his right, towards the office, since there was less chance of his movement being spotted if he was directly under the windows instead of across the room, especially since he wasn't sure how dark it was. It's possible the dimness that he saw was just due to the corneal scarring, and the room was actually very bright. He could hear the buzzing of overhead fluorescent lights, so he knew it wasn't too dark.

His right hand lost the wall of the bathroom as it fell away toward the back of the shop. At the same time, his forehead struck wood and he winced. Reaching up to touch it, he discovered the wooden frame of a rough stairway, likely the one leading to the rooms where the voices were. His toe also struck wood, but under the stairs was an open space. Investigating with one hand, he grimaced as his hand moved directly through a cobweb. Batting it away, he continued into the small, low space, and found several piles of thick, grimy chain. Next to those were a few scattered connecting links, and he put a couple into his pocket. He decided to leave the chain, since silence was his only camouflage.

The stairs descended to his left, but before he could move, a door overhead clanked open and he froze. He realized he hadn't put the metal bar back on the bathroom door, a mistake that might cost him now.

As if the man behind the door had changed his mind, a slam overhead told MacGyver that the door had shut again, and he silently released the breath he had been holding.

He debated with himself over going back and replacing the door of his prison in order to deflect attention, or to just try to get out of there as quickly as he could. He decided on the latter, but knew the second they spotted that door, he would be found.

Crouching, he circled the bottom of the wooden stairs, felt along the wall, just under the office windows, he guessed. He stayed as flat as he could to the wall, but grimaced when his foot caught the edge of a large wooden spool, and a metal tool crashed to the floor. He bent to pick it up and found that it was a good-sized wrench.

The office door above opened again, and MacGyver winced. Rats.

This time, footsteps came quickly down the wooden stairs. Almost without thinking, Mac turned and when the man reached the bottom of the stairway, Mac leaned out from the side wall and swung the wrench. He'd underestimated the height of the man, still on the last step, and it hit him in the chest with a dull thud. With his breath knocked out of him, the man fell backward onto the stairs. With a light touch, Mac ran his left hand up the front of the man's shirt, found his hair and pulled him forward into a sitting position. Using the huge wrench in his right hand, he clocked the man across the back of his skull, and the man crumpled like a forgotten suit of old clothes. Mac grabbed him by the armpits, awkwardly, still holding the wrench, and dragged him back along the wall away from the stairs.

This time, he avoided the wooden spool, which evidently had been used as a makeshift workbench. It sat in the corner between the office wall and the outer metal wall of the shop. Leaning against the wall of the shop, Mac found a long piece of aluminum or copper tubing, lightweight, but rigid, and about five feet long.

Perfect.

Using the tube as a blind man's cane, he probed gently in front of him so as not to knock any more things over. Surprisingly, the other men in the office hadn't come down the stairs yet, for which he was profoundly grateful.

Using the metal pipe, he made his way around several metal tool cabinets and a workbench. In the far corner was a taller metal box; he supposed it was a dumpster. He was close to the wall with the bright light now. All he needed to do was to slip around the side of the door.

At this precise moment, as he stood with his right hand on the side of the metal dumpster, he heard shouts from the office doorway behind him. Feet pounded down the wooden stairs, and several voices shouted to one another in a language Mac didn't recognize.

For a split second, MacGyver stood rooted, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Then, he bolted, feeling his way toward the door of the garage. Outside in the dazzling sunlight, with his vision washed out to a milky white, he turned, and with his right hand on the outside metal wall, began to follow it as quickly as he dared. Inside the garage, several pairs of shoes slapped toward him on the echoing concrete.

MacGyver's hand slid onto empty air as he reached the corner of the building. He turned to his right, and continued running along the wall, the metal pipe and wrench gripped in his left hand. Footsteps rushed after him, and any minute now, he expected to hear the whine of bullets.

Without warning, his feet slid out from under him and he was falling nearly vertically. Rocks, grit and dry, thorny bushes scratched at his back and arms as he slid downward. His tools immediately caught on the brush which grew thicker as he fell. He released the pipe and wrench, and let them fall where they may, while he continued his mad decent.

A particularly thorny bush reached out to claw him across the face and the stem of another grasped his wrist wrenching it sideways. He gritted his teeth in pain. Just at that moment, bullets began whizzing through the bushes, and he stopped his attempts to get back on his feet, instead, sliding on his rear and back, grimacing as the gravel tore through his shirt and into his skin.

His fall felt as though it took forever, but in reality, it was only about 30 seconds until he lay gasping and panting on his back under a thick tangle of thorny brush. The ground was very nearly level here, and so far none of the bullets had found their mark. He lay still, letting the dust around him settle, hoping it would not pinpoint his location to the men above.

Once the noise of his fall had quieted, he could hear their voices above and behind him, sounding confused. They shouted to one another, and he could hear their feet rushing along the top of the ridge, which must've been where the parking lot of the building fell off to this gully of bushes in which he now lay.

The pain in his torn back grew steadily worse, and as quietly as he could, he turned over to lie on his stomach in the dust. There was just barely room to do so, for he was surrounded by a tangle of scrub brush, which effectively hid him from the guns of the men above.

At this point, his plan was to wait to see if they would give up. Instead, he heard more words, and argument, and then an ominous crackle. He smelled smoke, and realized that they had set fire to the bushes above him.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

The dry brush caught quickly and he could feel the heat descending toward him. He ground his teeth, and with his face pointed down the hill, began to combat crawl through the bushes.

Unbidden to his mind came the jungles of Viet Nam, and he was crawling, just like this, while Charlie sent bullets screaming around him. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly and shook his head to clear it. This was not Nam. There was dry grit under him, not mud, and the bushes above him were desert-dry. California. Not Nam. Still, his already racing heart pumped even faster.

The fire picked up speed, a rushing, roaring, layered wall of flame and heat behind him. Out of habit, he glanced backward, but could barely make out an orange glow. What came clearly, was the rush of smoke across his nose and mouth, making him choke. He turned back forward and crawled faster.

More voices drifted down to him from behind. He was fairly sure they spoke something related to Arabic now, and he thought he recognized a word or two.

He reached the lowest point of the gully, and to his surprise and relief, a creek wound its lazy way through the bottom of it. The water felt gritty, but at this point, he wasn't about to be picky. He rolled his body into the muddy water, just as the wall of flames tore over him.

The water grew warm, and the knuckles on the back of his right hand began to singe where they rose out of the creek. He held his breath, and pressed his body lower into the silty creek bed.

The fire passed in a whoosh and a rush, jumping the bank and scrambling up the other side. MacGyver's lungs burned, and he risked lifting his head long enough to gasp in a ragged breath. As he did so, a bullet pinged into the water next to him, and he let his body go limp, hoping the shooter thought he had been hit.

Growing nearer, he heard the sound of sirens, and relief poured over him, knowing the thugs would be scared off by the authorities. Fire trucks raced toward the fire they had set to flush out MacGyver, and he heard their shouts dwindle as they fled the scene. He turned his head the side in order to suck in another breath of smoky air. When no shots came, he lifted his dripping face from the thick muck.

Nothing.

Mac's shoulders sagged and he blew a breath out past muddy lips. He was safe. In fact, it wasn't two minutes later that a voice called, "You all right, Mister?"

0-0-0

Talk about deja vu.

He was back in the hospital, and he heard Pete's shoes striding purposefully toward his bed.

"Hiya, Pete," he called with a wry smile.

"What in the hell happened, MacGyver?" Pete asked furiously. "You were supposed to be safe and sound in the training center, and instead I get a call that your back in here with a torn up back and second-degree burns?"

MacGyver sighed and began to recount the events of the day.

"You don't have any idea who these guys were?" Pete asked, rhetorically, Mac thought, because if he'd known he would have led with that.

"No idea. They weren't speaking English, or Arabic, although that was closer. There were three or four of them."

"Where was the garage next to the gully where the paramedics fished you out? They at least told you where that was?"

"It was out by the tracks," MacGyver said thoughtfully. He'd been chewing on this scrap of information himself. "A garage owned by Hoestetler, but he hadn't been there for a week. Apparently these guys broke in, so they could use it as a temporary base."

"Maybe they knew him?" Pete asked, and MacGyver shrugged. "Maybe. We've had our eye on him for a while now."

"Well, heal up," said Pete, a bit too heartily. "I won't slap your back this time."

"Thank you," said Mac dryly, thinking of the flayed skin and the burns that wore thick bandages now. Keeping his mind off the pain had been his sole occupation for the past four hours.

"I'll come get you personally when you're ready to leave," promised Pete. "We can't have these goons coming back for another crack at you."

"Thanks."

"And when you're healed up, I have a job I need you to do," Pete said over his shoulder as he left the room.

"What?" asked Mac incredulously. "Don't you ever give a guy a break?"

But Pete was gone. Mac rolled his eyes to himself and settled his face into the pillow, as the fiery pain raced again up his back.

0-0-0

A week later, MacGyver rode in a taxi toward the training center. Mac's cuts and burns had been downgraded to painfully sore, from absolute agony, and he was once again released. He could not have been happier to leave the boredom of the sterile hospital room.

"I think you're going to like the training center," Pete was saying, but MacGyver only half heard him.

Being in the car had reminded him forcefully how little he could see. It reminded him how terrifying and helpless he had felt when the thugs kidnapped him. It made him wonder how exactly he would do the job Pete had lined up for him in two short weeks. His usual pragmatism quailed in the face of such odds, but he didn't have any more time to think about it, because the taxi pulled up to a curb, and the driver cut the motor.

MacGyver opened the door and stiffly rose from the passenger side, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, because he didn't know which way to go. Pete hurried around the car.

"Like I said, you'll like it here. I did."

Mac whirled to face his friend. "You did?" he asked, the shock plain in his voice. "What were you doing here? Why…?"

He heard Pete suck in a long, slow breath.

"Glaucoma," he said tersely.

"Glaucoma?" asked Mac in confusion. "But that's treatable, isn't it?"

"Yeah," admitted Pete slowly. "But mine is complicated and advancing pretty quickly."

"When… When were you going to tell me?" asked MacGyver quietly.

"Well, it just never seemed like the right time," said Pete lamely.

"So, we're both… blind?" asked MacGyver with a sudden burst of wry laughter that snapped the tension like a string.

"Yeah, I guess so," said Pete. "That's why I wanted to get you back out into the field as soon as possible. I learned in all of my rehab training that even with less vision as I'm sure to experience in the next few years, it's better to adapt and continue working."

"I wasn't sure I could," admitted MacGyver soberly.

"Just wait," Pete said cheerily. "You'll find out all sorts of things you can do."

A voice greeted them from the building next to the sidewalk where they stood. "Peter! So nice to see you again. And this is your colleague?"

"MacGyver." he said by way of introduction, turning toward the man.

Pete finished the introduction. "MacGyver, this is Hoss Adams, the director. Hoss, this is MacGyver."

"Hoss?" asked MacGyver with an upraised brow.

"Old nickname," the director said cheerfully. "Might as well start calling me that, because you're sure to wind up calling me that."

"Ooohhh-kay," said Mac.

Hoss walked briskly to the taxi where he retrieved Mac's bag from the trunk and handed it to him.

"Now, if you'd like to take my elbow, I'll show you into the center," he offered. "Talk to you soon, Pete."

The goodbyes being said, Pete got back into the taxi, and it pulled away, while MacGyver took the offered elbow and followed Hoss into the training center.

He had a vague idea of a carpeted hallway, and the building smelled like a combination of old building and lemon furniture polish. Not a bad combination, really.

"Peter said you would only be with us for two weeks, is that right?" Hoss asked.

"Yeah, I think so. Kind of a crash course, I guess." MacGyver said.

"Here is your room," said the director, and mentioned that it was the first door on the left past the stairs. Mac was surprised how easy this information made it to picture the hallway in his mind. After a quick tour of the restroom down the hall, Hoss left Mac alone in his room for the night.

The next few days were a whirlwind of classes. Although Mac initially felt hesitant, he found his natural curiosity and love of learning taking over as he explored the center's kitchen, braille library and even wood shop. From cooking classes to daily living skills like shaving, and lessons every day with a long white cane, he found that he hardly had time to think, and always fell into bed exhausted at the end of the day.

In cooking class, he was shown a talking timer, a stove with bumps on the buttons, and even a microwave oven with a dial. His instructor humored his preference for tofu and milkshakes. The woodshop surprised him the most as the blind instructor showed them how to use power tools safely.

"We find it builds the confidence of people who are blind if they can build things and use the table saw and drill," the instructor explained. Mac had to agree that he would not have thought it possible until he was actually doing it himself. Knowing where the saw blade was, and where his hands were, he learned to keep them out of the path of the blade, and tactile measuring tools, like a click ruler, made it easy to cut correct lengths.

The cane he was given folded into six sections and was held with elastic cord. When it snapped straight, it came up nearly to his shoulder. He was informed that the folding cane was the very newest technology, made of lightweight aluminum. The eighties, he was told, was a good decade for new technology.

The instructor took MacGyver out to the sidewalk where they practiced using the cane to sweep a path along the sidewalk, assuring him there were no obstacles in his path. At first, his stomach clenched with fear, but it didn't take long before he began to trust what the tip of his cane told him. He learned to find street crossings, listen to the flow of traffic and cross. He learned to find doorways to buildings and to make mental maps to get to his destination. He learned to use public transportation, and the best way to ask for directions.

In braille class, he didn't fare as well. He understood the concept of the cell and the dota making little shapes, but couldn't for the life of him tell which one his fingers felt. It would come with time, he was told, but he dreaded the discouragement of braille class.

0-0-0

He still felt shaky in his newfound skills when the two weeks were up and Pete was back at the curb, this time with a driver from the Phoenix Foundation, to pick him up.

"How'd it go?" Pete asked, before Mac had even settled himself in the car.

"Crazy," MacGyver replied, knowing Pete would know what he meant. "What's this new job you have for me?"

"We've really needed you back in the saddle," said Pete, with a new soberness in his tone. "Two of our agents disappeared in London and we need someone to go in who will not be expected."

"Yeah," said MacGyver dryly, "I'm sure they won't expect sunglasses and a white cane."

"Exactly," said Pete. "We need you on a plane tomorrow."

MacGyver sighed. He really would have preferred some time off, to recuperate, maybe take in a hockey game. Except he couldn't see it. Hmm… Maybe he could listen to the radio play-by-play. He snapped his attention back to what Pete was saying.

"I have your tickets and passport ready to go. We'll have a driver take you to the airport, and the airline personnel can assist you from there."

"Sounds great, Pete," he said, forcing a smile. He wondered why Pete was pushing him so hard. He found it tiring enough just to get through the day while his brain screamed for visual images it couldn't get.

Still, when the next morning came, he couldn't suppress that little thrill of adventure he felt whenever he had to travel. He waited with his carry-on bag at the foot of his stairs, hoping this time it would be the Phoenix Foundation driver who found him first. It was, and in no time he was whisked to the airport.

His first real shock happened when the driver pulled up to the curb and he got out of the car.

"Mr. MacGyver?" said a voice to his right.

"Yes," he said, turning quickly.

"I have a wheelchair for you, sir," said the young woman. "Your ticket said assistance was requested."

"A wheelchair?" asked MacGyver in disbelief. He turned back to thank the driver, and then turned again to face the woman. "I don't need a wheelchair. I just need you to show me where my gate is."

"We provide wheelchairs when assistance is requested," said the young woman in a tone that indicated she had shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't need a wheelchair," repeated MacGyver, thinking that there was no way on this green earth that he'd ride through the airport in a wheelchair. He felt frustrated and ashamed, as though this woman somehow didn't see him as a human, but merely as a request on a slip of paper. He choked down his anger, and tried to remember what Hoss had said at the Center.

They won't know the right way to help, so you'll have to teach them.

"If I can just take your elbow," said Mac, flashing his best heart-stopping grin at her. It worked, and the young woman abandoned her wheelchair, and gave him her arm instead. When she spoke again, her voice was several pitches higher, and Mac grinned to himself.

"Right this way, Mr. MacGyver. May I see your ticket? Gate 14C? Right this way."

By the time they reached Gate 14C, Mac was kicking himself for trying to charm her. She fussed and fluttered the whole way there, as giggly as a schoolgirl, and he breathed a profound sigh of relief when she deposited him in a molded plastic seat near the departure desk.

Getting on the plane was thankfully uneventful, as the stewardess who came to collect him was experienced and professional, but he realized he just had a taste of the unpredictability of the public around blindness, and the thought occupied him for the first several hours of the flight.

At first he merely reflected on how annoying it was to be treated like a child, when he was a professional agent on his way to London. After some time spent chewing on this, however, he realized that this could actually be a huge asset. No, blindness itself wouldn't be an asset at all. It was in fact a huge pain in the butt. But having people underestimate him would really be handy. After all who in their right mind would suspect a blind guy?

His meal arrived, and he forced himself to eat some of the eggs, but couldn't down the slab of uncertain meat that might have come from almost any animal, judging by the smell. He finished his dinner with a biscuit, and asked for some orange juice.

He stared out the window at the haze that by now was becoming so familiar he started to forget to notice it. He half listened to the on-flight movie, but paid little attention, instead thinking about the briefing Pete had given last night.

The greater London area had received several terrorist threats, suspected from a Libyan faction that had been growing in the region. Two agents, one from the CIA in the United States, and one from MI5 had been investigating when they both suddenly disappeared. It seemed that the Libyans had knowledge of the agents' identities and knew what to look for. It was for this reason that the DXS and Phoenix Foundation was brought on board. It was hoped that they could send in someone to stay totally off the radar, yet still manage to locate and rescue the missing agents.

MacGyver felt that the first part of that proposition would be a piece of cake. The second? Not as easy. Why send a blind guy to look for people? To look for anything? It was nuts.

He leaned his head back on the seat cushion and tried to doze, although the straight-backed seat would not allow him to get comfortable. He hated flying. Unless he was in the cockpit.

0-0-0

At long last the plane taxied into Heathrow and MacGyver unbuckled his seatbelt and began thinking about stretching his legs. It still seemed almost an hour before MacGyver was able to retrieve his bag from the overhead bin and follow the press of people toward the door of the aircraft. The stewardess noticed his cane and asked if he needed help into the terminal. He decided to opt for adventure, and declined. He regretted that decision almost immediately as he exited the ramp and discovered he didn't know which way to turn in order to find the terminal. He stood awkwardly listening to the people hurrying past him, where they seemed to be swallowed in a vast quiet hallway.

"Do you need help?" the voice at his elbow made him jump. It was female, and friendly, yet hesitant, with the rough edge of shyness that he already recognized from people who thought they may have been offering unwanted assistance.

"Sure, if you can point me in the right direction, that would be great," he said, turning to smile at her.

"Baggage claim?" she asked. Her voice was lower to the floor than his, and she sounded confident, and not as young as he had first guessed. He pictured curly hair, shoulder pads in her business suit, and smart pumps. He wondered how far off his guess was.

"Nah," he said breezily, "I just have a carry-on."

"Do you need me to hold your elbow?" she asked uncertainly.

"Let me take yours," he replied, giving her a crash course on sighted guide technique. "That way I can follow you." He held his cane and bag awkwardly in his left hand, and took her offered elbow in his right. Her bones were slim and light, and she wore a soft sweater.

She started walking, slowly at first, but as he followed easily, she relaxed and quickened her pace.

"Name's MacGyver," he offered, by way of introduction.

"Theresa," she replied. "Theresa Inglis. No, actually it's Theresa Reynolds."

"Are you not sure of your name?" he asked with a smile.

"Sorry," she said, still flustered. "I just got divorced. That's why I'm here. In London, I mean. I needed a break. I needed to get away from…"

She stopped abruptly. "You know what? Never mind. You don't need to hear all of my troubles."

"I'm told that blind people are extremely good listeners," he said, then winced at his own cliche. Had he really just said that?

She let out a long breath. "Jack. Jack Inglis. My husband. I married him three years ago, but I didn't know I married Sauron."

"Sauron?" asked MacGyver.

"Oh, sorry. Lord of the Rings reference. Only really dorky people read those books, I guess. Anyway, I left that bastard and I'm not looking back."

"Well, good for you," said MacGyver encouragingly.

"Enough about me. How about you? You're really brave to travel by yourself." She sounded just a bit gushing, and MacGyver cringed inwardly. "What made you, uhhh…?" She let her sentence trail off, unable to bring herself to say the word.

"Blind," he said with a grin. "You can say it."

"Blind," she said obediently.

"Corneal scarring," he said. "From an infection." Why did people think it necessary to ask that anyway?

"I'm sorry," she said for the third time. "Was it a long time ago?"

"Actually, not long ago at all," he said, reflecting on the fact that it had only really been a few weeks in fact. He was still struggling with his new identity, and he found he didn't much like it as something that he would wear forever.

She didn't reply to this, and he decided her attention was diverted by a choice of ways, because she leaned this way and that, reading signs under her breath.

"I'm not sure which way to go," she admitted sheepishly. "I need to find baggage claim, but I can't seem to find a sign that says which way that is. I must have taken a wrong turn back there." She turned uncertainly, and MacGyver mentally rolled his eyes.

"No! Here it is," she said happily, just when he was beginning to wonder if he might be better off navigating on his own after all. "You might as well come with me, since the doors are out that way."

"If you could just find a pay phone," he began, but she interrupted.

"It's this way." She took off again, and he juggled bag, coat and cane in his left hand to follow.

It wasn't far when he heard the shuffling of bags as the porters unloaded them onto the moving belts. Better yet, he heard the jingle of coins and the click of buttons on a row of telephones. He wondered if the airport phones were in the iconic red boxes or just in a row along the wall.


	3. Chapter 3

He turned to thank Theresa, but she was already distracted looking for her bags. He grinned to himself again and turned toward the phones. The first one in the row had the body of a stout man standing in front of it, and Mac winced when his hand brushed the man's suit jacket.

"Sorry," he muttered, but the man, busy listening, said nothing.

The next phone was unoccupied, and Mac dug into his pocket for the British coins he'd had the foresight to pick up before Pete left. Finding the coin slot proved to be harder, and he spent a frustrating minute or two running his fingers around the call box looking for it.

At last, he found it and inserted the ten pence piece into it, dialing the number he'd memorized under Pete's tutelage.

"Harris," the gruff voice on the line replied after Mac had made his request of the secretary.

"MacGyver," Mac identified himself. "I'm at the airport."

"Mr. MacGyver?" Harris sounded surprised. "We were told to expect you tomorrow." His tone of voice made it clear that having his plans changed for him was not something he enjoyed.

"Someone from the Phoenix Foundation should have contacted you," explained MacGyver.

Harris broke in abruptly, "We were not contacted, Mr. MacGyver, and as my driver is out today, I shall have to collect you personally."

MacGyver winced, but did not reply.

"I shall arrive in thirty minutes," said Harris, and rang off.

Mac slowly replaced the receiver in the cradle and sighed. This was not going as smoothly as he would have liked. He rubbed his aching eyes and straightened his still-sore scars that raced up and down his back and knuckles.

Then, he squared his shoulders and turned, determined to make the best of the situation.

"Mr. MacGyver!" fluttered Theresa at his elbow. "You disappeared. Naughty thing. But I've collected my cases now, so I'm ready to take you wherever you need to go!"

Mac decided that he had definitely made a mistake in accepting help from this woman who had appeared to attach herself to him like a barnacle. He wondered whether he would enjoy dour Harris's company more, or Theresa.

"I needed to make a phone call," he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the row of telephones.

"Of course you did," she replied, and continued without stopping. "Do you need to change money? I need to gain some pounds. Hee hee, get it?" She giggled at her own pun, while Mac tried not to look appalled.

"I do, actually," he said politely.

"Then come with me," she said, struggling with a large suitcase, which she had added to her purse and carry-on. Mac offered to carry the case, but immediately discovered he needed both hands. Theresa took the handle of her case from the other side, presumably to guide him, but he noticed that she self-consciously touched his hand on the leather handle. He sucked in a deep breath.

"Lead on, milady," he said, keeping his tone even. He felt a tug on the handle, and he followed, the light on his right growing brighter as they approached a wall of windows.

A few minutes later, they had emerged through the sliding doors into the sunlight, which MacGyver's brain, ready for night and sleep, had difficulty accepting. The beginnings of a headache began to throb along his temples as Theresa abruptly dropped the handle of her suitcase and began hopping lightly up and down.

"Taxi!" she cried, and Mac supposed she was also waving her hand as her jumping became more insistent.

"Here we are, Mr. MacGyver," she said happily when a rumbling motor pulled up to the curb.

"Oh, I have someone coming to pick me up," he explained hastily, realizing that Theresa had assumed he would be riding with her to who knows where. He mentally shook his head that the white cane had so diminished him in her eyes that she had adopted him like a stray puppy.

"Where are you going?" she asked coyly, and he hesitated. Revealing his true destination didn't seem to be too dangerous to a mere acquaintance off the plane, but at the same time, experience had taught him to be cautious, probably overly so.

"Just exploring London," he said vaguely.

"With your friend?" she asked.

Friend, he thought. Not hardly.

He was saved from having to come up with an answer by another car pulling up to the curb and a door opening.

"MacGyver." Harris's voice sounded one notch more friendly than it had on the phone, which wasn't saying much.

"Oh, is this your friend?" asked Theresa with a note of distaste in her voice.

"Mr. Harris, Theresa… uh… Reynolds," Mac offered, struggling to recall the name.

"Charmed," said Harris dismissively and stepped toward Mac to take his elbow. Rather than correct him, Mac moved toward the car, suppressing his feeling that he was entering the driver's seat as he climbed into the left front seat.

"Goodbye!" called Theresa, and Mac waved a hand out the window at her, glad he wouldn't have to continue dodging her friendship arrows.

Harris, lowered himself to the seat next to Mac with a ponderous sigh that suggested some bulk. With a grind of gears, he nudged the car away from the curb and into traffic.

"I spoke with Peter Thornton," he said without preamble.

"Oh good," began Mac, but Harris continued, cutting him off.

"I disagree with him entirely," said Harris coldly. "Putting a blind man into the field so soon after your injury is not useful to me or to you."

"Pete thought that underestimation…" tried Mac, but Harris went on as if he hadn't heard.

"No matter how impressive your dossier, a newly blinded agent has no business being…"

"See here," said Mac, interrupting in his turn. "I'm not any more crazy about it than you are. But I do what I'm told." He'd decided that turning Pete into the bad cop was the best route since it put him on Harris's side rather than the opposite.

Harris made a noise that Mac supposed was a grumpy acquiescence and fell silent.

Mac tried to look out the window at the passing city, but found that the glare of light effectively hid the blurred gray buildings that were passing. Once, Harris tapped the brakes and harrumphed, then resumed his speed. Mac found the drive had just begun lulling him to sleep when the car pulled up to the curb and Harris turned off the engine. The street seemed narrow, and Mac listened for a break in the traffic before cautiously pulling the door handle with his left hand and stretching his stiff back as he stood. He unfolded his cane and closed his door, making his way around to the back of the car where Harris was opening the trunk to retrieve his bag.

"Didn't even really need to put this in the boot," commented Harris, as if in admiration for Mac's ability to travel light. "Follow me," he said, and clumped across toward the building that loomed over them.

Mac used his cane to find the step of the curb and somewhat hesitantly followed the footsteps. At the open door he paused, the darkness of the hall within effectively blacking out his vision entirely. As he'd been taught, he swept his cane ahead of him, looking for obstacles and continued to follow Harris.

"This way," Harris growled, turning to his right and beginning to ascend some stairs. Mac suddenly realized that Harris was testing him. Was he up to this job? This annoyed Mac, since the job he'd been given had nothing to do with navigating a staircase and offering an elbow to guide him should not have bothered the man at all. Mac tried to shake off his annoyance. There wasn't much he could do about it, and after all, the staircase really wasn't much of a problem.

Harris entered a room that smelled thickly of cigarette smoke, and Mac had the impression of clutter and desks. The scratch of a pencil and the ring of a telephone confirmed that he was in London's version of the Bull Pen. His cane hid a wooden desk with a thud, and he made his way around it, trying to keep up with Harris who seemed to be continuing on toward a more private office.

Mac followed him through another door and turned as he discovered Harris behind him, ready to close the door behind them.

"Well, you're here," said Harris, seating his ponderous weight in a squeaky chair behind a large desk. Mac, left standing, wondered if he should find a chair or remain on his feet. "I didn't want you, but we've got to make the best of it now that you're here. How much has Peter told you?"

"Not much," Mac admitted. "He said two agents had disappeared."

"That's right," affirmed Harris. "Two American agents were here to assist us with turning a Russian agent who had contacted us in a very unusual way. Before they could make contact, both of them vanished. We need you to finish their job."

"But Pete said I was supposed to find them," objected MacGyver.

"This agent is of the greatest importance," went on Harris, and Mac had the feeling that he hadn't been heard at all. "As far as your colleagues, we think they might have… you know."

Mac knew what he was implying by the distaste with which he had said the word "American." He assumed the two agents had defected. Someone had offered them money or drugs or sex and just like that, willy nilly, they'd gone off to Russia. He sighed with frustration. Calling out the man's bigotry against Americans would probably do no good, and he decided to let it go, like he had the remarks about the blindness. He needed more information, not to make enemies. He resolved that he'd add both missions together, because not for a minute did he think that the two US agents had defected.

"What's the information on the Russian agent? How did he contact you?" he asked, extending his cane slowly toward the chairs he hoped would be in front of the desk. They weren't.

"She," corrected Harris. "She is a very well-known figure, a dancer, Nadia Pletskya, which is of course, not her real name."

Mac hadn't heard of her, since he didn't follow ballet. He thought wryly that if she had played hockey he would have not only known her name but her stats as well.

"How did she contact you?" he asked.

"She has been touring the world," Harris said, "And she was dancing here in London. At the Royal Ballet as a guest. That's how she contacted us, through one of our people there."

"You have people at the Royal Ballet?" asked MacGyver skeptically.

"Of course we do," snapped Harris. "You see, she left two red roses in his dressing room."

"And that means…?" asked Mac.

"It's cliche, yes, but back during the war, two red roses had been a simple code between the Russians and the British, asking for help."


	4. Chapter 4

"What did he do?" asked Mac.

"He did not want to lose his cover, so he contacted us," Harris said, and added dryly, "It was not my choice to bring in the CIA."

 _I'll bet it wasn't_ , thought MacGyver.

"Two American agents stationed in London were sent in to make contact with Miss Pletskya, but she was already gone, although she had not been scheduled to leave for two more days. The agents, too, disappeared. Of course we contacted your agency immediately," Harris explained.

And here I am, thought MacGyver wryly.

"We have a flat for you," said Harris. "You are capable of… living alone?"

"Yes," said Mac between ground teeth. "How about we get right to work? Where is the Royal Ballet?"

"I can take you there," offered Harris, to Mac's surprise.

"That won't be necessary," said Mac coldly. The less time spent with this man, the better. "I can get a cab."

With relief in his voice, Harris said, "That will be fine. My secretary will give you the information on your flat."

"Thank you," said MacGyver, extending his hand for a shake. His anger with Harris suddenly evaporated. The man simply did not know what to do, and it wasn't really his fault he felt uncomfortable. Mac was simply too new at this gig himself to not be shocked by the difference in how people treated him.

He turned and found the door with his cane. As he walked out into the Bullpen, a voice called him over to his right, and a pleasant, younger-sounding man pushed a bulky envelope into his hand.

"'Ere you are, Mr. MacGyver. I was told to give you these when you arrived tomorrow." He didn't sound reproachful, and Mac accepted the envelope without comment and turned to his left to head again toward the door and the stairs. He realized that he couldn't quite remember the route he'd taken to get in, and he frowned in frustration as he turned back to the secretary.

"Would you please show me down to the front door?" he asked, raising his cane slightly to communicate his dilemma.

"No problem, sir," said the secretary affably, and he rose and walked around his desk. He bumped his elbow against the back of MacGyver's free hand, and Mac grabbed on. He knows how to do this, thought Mac in surprise.

The man offered no explanation, but led Mac through the hallways and down the stairs until he was standing once again in glaring daylight on the stone pavement. Mac thanked the secretary and heard the door click as the man went back inside. It was then that Mc realized he had not gotten the man's name.

He turned and raised a hand in what he hoped was the universal "hail a cab" gesture. It worked, and a car pulled up to the curb from his right.

"Where to, Mate?" asked the cheery voice of the driver, getting out of his seat and coming to open the door for MacGyver and guide him into the back seat.

"The Royal Ballet," said MacGyver, tucking the envelope with his keys into his overnight bag. He'd figure out how to read the address and instructions later.

"Right-o," said the Cabby, and pulled out and around several corners before settling onto a busy road and crossing what sounded to Mac like a bridge.

"Is this the river?" he asked, squinting at the glare on the window, which was frustratingly all he could see.

"Aye," said the Cabby. "The Thames. Up yonder is Buckingham Palace. The Royals aren't there now though. You don't see the flag."

No, thought MacGyver, I don't.

"You just got here?" asked the Cabby.

"Yes," answered MacGyver.

"Going to take in the sights? Well, err, I mean look around?" persisted the Cabby.

"Starting with the Royal Ballet," confirmed MacGyver, ignoring the awkward language usage. "Have you heard of Nadia Pletskya?"

"She was the Russian dancer who was here a week ago?" asked the Cabby carelessly. "She didn't take to London, or so they say. Left in a bit of a hurry, she did. My girl was that disappointed, she was. She was going to see her dance on Saturday."

"Where was her next booking, I wonder?" asked MacGyver, trying to sound careless himself.

"Likely Paris," said the Cabby. "They all go to Paris, it seems."

Mac doubted the accuracy of this statement, but he didn't comment.

It wasn't long before the cab pulled to the curb. Mac fished some bills out of his pocket and paid the fare, and the driver once again opened Mac's door. Grabbing his bag and unfolding his cane, Mac stood on the curb facing what seemed to him to be an extremely large building.

The Cabby called, "Cheerio," in cliche London fashion, and drove away.

MacGyver turned toward the building, thinking about his plan of attack. Barging in and questioning everyone wouldn't be the most subtle approach, and might end up with him disappearing as quickly as the previous two agents did. He took stock of his assets. He had his usual pocket knife and duct tape, as well as a few more tools stashed in his bag. He thought about his cane. He listed that among his assets, both as a tool and as a disguise. If even Harris didn't take him for an agent, then any Russians watching likely wouldn't either. Suddenly, the clumsiness and incompetence that had frustrated him a minute ago seemed like a shield, keeping him safe from prying eyes. He imagined a radar, looking for British and American agents to be coming here, but the radar beam slid harmlessly over him, a blind man, with barely a flicker. At least he hoped that was the case.

"Kin I help you, Mister?" asked a voice on his right.

He turned to the young boy with his characteristic grin. "Sure can, son. I need to go to the Box Office."

"I know where that is," proclaimed the boy joyfully. "I go home this way every day."

Mac placed a hand on the lad's shoulder, and the boy led him toward the building. Mac had expected steps, but there were none as the boy pushed through a glass door into lobby and hallway. Soon they arrived at a counter where keys clicked on computers and telephones rang, while hushed voices answered.

"May I help you, sir?" asked a woman behind the counter.

Mac squeezed the boy's shoulder and whispered a quick thank-you. The boy scampered off and Mac turned to the lady behind the counter.

"One ticket, please, to see Nadia Pletskya."

"She was here last week, sir. I'm sorry."

"Last week?" asked Mac in feigned disbelief.

"Yes, sir," the attendant said with annoyance.

"All week?" asked Mac.

"She left early," said the attendant with more annoyance in her voice. Apparently the ballet star's disappearance had caused a major upset among the patrons of the Royal Opera House.

"Left early?" asked Mac in his best Dexter Fillmore voice. "Why?"

"Well, they say that she fell ill, but I saw her right before she went on Thursday night and she was fit and healthy then," said the woman.

"You saw her?" Mac asked with pretended awe.

"I spoke with her," said the attendant proudly. "We aren't generally allowed backstage, but I was sent on an errand that night and went back right before she performed. I tell you…" her voice trailed off in quiet delight. "I gave her a message, and she thanked me so sweetly. A lot of the performers have their noses up, but she didn't."

"I wonder what the message said," MacGyver remarked with careful nonchalance.

"It was nothing. Something about her new slippers arriving early at Freed. She turned a bit pale, come to think on it, but smiled and thanked me, like I said. It was a treat to get to meet her!"

"Freed?" asked Mac.

"Oh, the shop that sells ballet shoes. She must have needed a new pair right away. All the good dancers do, you know."

No, Mac did not know this.

"I stayed that night and watched her dance," went on the attendant happily. "She was absolutely brilliant. It's a pity she left early. The weekend matinees were sold out, and we had to bring in Alexandre Comstock instead, which I'm sure was a disappointment."

"Definitely," said MacGyver, hoping his agreement sounded knowledgeable.

The woman's voice suddenly sounded coy. "I finish here in about ten minutes. Would you like to find a pub?"

For the fraction of a second, Mac hesitated. But this might be too good an opportunity to pass up. "Sure," he said, flashing his 100-watt smile and looking right in her direction.

"There's a chair to your left, if you don't mind waiting," the attendant said. "I'm Carolyn, by the way. My name tag says it, but I didn't know if…"

Mac smiled again, and used his cane to find the chair. As he sat, he pondered the pieces of the puzzle, which seemed so few at this point. Two missing agents. A ballerina who left early. A message about shoes. He decided that the shoe shop probably ought to be next on the list.

"Are you ready?" asked Carolyn brightly. "I'm ducking out a few minutes early. MaryAnne won't mind," she said conspiratorially.

"Okay," said Mac, standing and gripping his bag.

"Follow me, then," said Carolyn, and let the way, not through the front doors, but toward a back hallway. Mac followed her vague form, until the light dimmed and then followed her clicking shoes as best he could. Worried about getting left behind, he crowded too closely and hit her feet with his cane.

"Sorry," he apologized. "May I take your arm?"

She agreed, only slightly awkwardly, and led him through a series of hallways that smelled like old, musty building.

"Are we going backstage?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, no, I couldn't take you backstage," she responded. I'm just going toward the car park behind the ballet school. It's the only place I could find this morning.

"The ballet school?" asked Mac.

"The Royal Ballet," said Carolyn, as if Mac was a bit daft.

"Of course," he said, lifting his chin.

At last they pushed through some doors into the brilliant sunlight, and Mac squinted against the glare. He had the beginnings of a headache forming, which made it hard to concentrate. Carolyn led him down the street and unlocked a chirping electric lock on her car. She seemed slightly nervous, and Mac wondered if she regretted asking him out to drinks.

Before he had time to wonder further about this, he heard fast-approaching footsteps, and then strong arms grabbed him from behind. Mac dropped his bag and cane and wrenched his arms free, spinning to face his attacker. As he did so, his left foot stepped off the curb and he stumbled. In that moment, the man was on him. He was shorter than Mac, but strong and wiry, and smelling strongly of e-cigarettes.

The man tried to capture Mac's arms again, but Mac twisted free and gut-punched him. The man returned in kind, and Mac doubled over, less in pain, but more to give himself a moment to think out his next move. He could hardly see the guy through the intense glare, so he reached up and grabbed a fistful of clothing, which turned out to be a leather jacket, unzipped. With his left holding firmly to the man's coat, he gave the man a right hook in the face.

Mac heard more footsteps coming toward him. The man twisted out of his coat, leaving it in MacGyver's hand, and brought both hands down hard on Mac's neck as he stood on the curb above Mac. Mac saw sparkles, and found himself gasping for breath. The man followed up with a lightning left hook, and as he did so more thugs arrives and quickly subdued Mac, binding his hands behind him and stuffing him into the car that Carolyn had opened.

He squeezed his eyes closed in frustration at being so trusting when a women started flirting with him. This wasn't the first time it has gotten you into trouble, he scolded himself.

The car pulled away from the curb, with Mac laying in the back seat, his legs folded over in order to fit. One of the thugs had climbed into the passenger seat, and someone was driving. He couldn't tell if it was Carolyn or the second thug. The car drove for several minutes, while Mac worked on the rope that held his wrists.

Sooner than Mac would have guessed, it stopped and the thugs climbed out, releasing Mac's door as well. He thankfully stretched out his legs, and the men hauled him out onto his feet. On the way out, Mac clipped the top of his head on the door and winced.

"Come on, you," said one of the thugs. "Get in here, quickly." He gave Mac a push forward toward a shadowy building, and Mac found himself pitching forward as his feet caught on a stone step he hadn't seen. His hands, still tied behind him, couldn't block his fall, so his chest and right shoulder took the brunt, hitting the sharp edges of more steps. He grunted in pain.

"What, are you blind or something?" the second thug asked.

"Yes," said MacGyver, between gritted teeth.

"A blind guy?" asked the thug incredulously? "She called us to take in a f****** blind guy?"

"He fought like a devil," said the first thug. "Maybe he's pretending."

Mac rolled his eyes.

"Let's take him in and let them question him at least," said the second thug. Together, they hauled Mac to his feet, with their hands under each arm. Mac tried to find the steps with his feet as they dragged him along, but more often than not, he missed, and they cursed at him.

At the top of the steps, they opened wooden doors, and a dim, coldness spilled out. They pulled him through a silent place, and he just got a side glimpse of colored light and the sense of a large, open space. A rack of candles flickered near him, and he realized they had pulled him into the side door of a large cathedral. Almost immediately, his next step dropped out from under him, and they held him firmly as they descended some stairs, pausing to unlock a metal gate.

"The Crypt," one of them said in a tauntingly eerie tone.

A/N: There! Finally finished this chapter. Reviews, please? They are very motivating to a writer, especially one as busy as I am. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Somewhere off to his left and high up, a shaft of light pierced the crypt, but it wasn't enough to help MacGyver in the darkness. As one thug held his upper arms, the other struggled with a metal key in the lock of a large gate that clanged and screeched as it opened. Mac's pockets were searched and his money and pocket knife were removed. He was shoved roughly inside and the gate crashed shut behind him. He took a minute to regain his balance; then he turned and reached his hands toward the iron bars. The voices and footsteps of the thugs retreated up the stone stairs and far above a door closed.

Mac's fingers searched for the lock and he bent toward it, trying in vain to peer through the darkness to make it out. In this he was unsuccessful, however, and he contented himself with getting as much information as he could from his fingers. It was a large, old fashioned metal lock, welded onto the bars of the gate. He grasped the bars in both hands and laid his forehead against their coldness as the exhaustion of the day began to catch up with him. His jet-lagged brain was insisting that the time was about 2am, and he felt hungry and frustrated.

He took a deep breath.

Behind him a low voice muttered something, and MacGyver whirled around, his back to the iron bars.

"Who's there?" He asked, squinting into the oppressive darkness.

The voice did not answer, and Mac started forward across the stone floor. In a few steps, he collided with something solid and about waist-high: the tombstone. It was flat on top with letters cut into the stone, as Mac discovered after a quick sweep of his hand, but he didn't take the time to read them. He used the edge of the table-like stone to circle around it. On the other side, his foot encountered something soft and he knelt. A person's leg stretched out from the tombstone toward the cold back wall, and Mac soon found that it was a man slumped against the tombstone. He wore the smooth fabric of an expensive dinner jacket or tuxedo, and his face showed several days' stubble, although Mac did not feel further.

The man was either asleep or unconscious, so Mac shook him gently. There was no response. Mac left him lying where he was and went back to exploring the cell.

There wasn't much to find. Vertical bars enclosed three sides of a space around the tombstone, and these were bolted to a fourth wall made of stone. Mac felt each bolt to see if any were loose or rusted, but they were all tight.

He crouched to feel along the bottom of the tombstone looking for any kind of tool, even a rock, but he found nothing.

The man on the floor muttered something again, and Mac went to him.

"Hey," he said. "You all right?"

The man muttered slurred words again and struggled to sit up. Mac helped him, but as soon as the man was upright, he slumped to his side again. Mac felt his cold hands. Something was clearly wrong with the man. Was he dehydrated? Hypothermic? Drugged? Mac doubted it was that, since the thugs hadn't drugged him.

He began a more thorough search of the man, starting with his shoes. These were shiny patent leather. The laces had possibilities. Next the trousers. A silk stripe up the outside of the leg told Mac that the man did indeed wear a tux. In the pocket was chewing gum wrapper. Mac sighed.

Around the man's chest was strapped a discreet holster, which was empty. In the breast pocket of the jacket he found nothing. No phone, no keys. He looked for something sewn into the front flaps of the jacket, and found a torn place. Whatever was there had been removed.

The shirt had the usual tucks that distinguished tuxedo shirts, with smooth, rounded buttons. The bow tie had been untied and hung limply.

He reached up to the man's head and finally found something useful. The man wore a wig, and underneath the wig and tight cap were several hairpins.

Mac removed several of these, and set to work on the lock. After ten minutes, he gave up in frustration. They were too small and soft to tackle the stiff, heavy lock.

The man behind the tombstone was stirring again. Mac hurried toward him and again crouched on the floor.

"My head," the man said groggily.

"What happened?" Mac asked him.

The man started with surprise, apparently not realizing until that moment that Mac was there.

"Who's there?" He asked suspiciously.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," said Mac with a wry chuckle. "Name's MacGyver."

"American?" asked the man in confusion.

"Yes," said Mac.

"It's so dark," complained the man peevishly. "You're not one of them, are you?"

"Them?" asked Mac. "The guys who threw me in here?"

"They hit me over the head," said the man, as if to himself. "Must not have wanted me to make a dash when they put you in." He began to struggle to sit again.

"Whoa, easy," said Mac as the man swayed dizzily. This time, however, he stayed conscious.

"Must have been out all day," continued the man. "It's night, anyway."

Mac looked toward the far wall beyond the bars where the blue finger of light still slanted downward. He looked back at the man whose face and form he could not see.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked. "There's some light."

"Dammit," the man swore sincerely. "That means I can't see. Damn knock on the head."

Mac was surprised at the man's calm reaction, as if this wasn't totally unexpected, but still unwelcome. He also thought wryly of the irony that they were both blind. What were the odds?

"Uhm, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but I'm blind too," said Mac.

"They hit you over the head too?" asked the man.

"No," said Mac thankfully. "I was injured. I did rehab."

"Oh, so you know how to do this," said the man with interest. "That could be useful."

Mac snorted. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Craig."

"Nice to meet you," said Mac in a wry tone.

"Likewise," said Craig. "Wait, if you're blind, how do you know there's light?"

"A little light is about all I can see," explained Mac wearily. "Why the wig?"

"Oh, you found that, did you?" asked Craig. "I wanted to look more dashing for the ballet," he explained with amusement in his voice.

Which meant, thought Mac, that he wasn't going to tell. "The ballet?" Mac asked, suddenly alert. "Which performer?"

The man's voice was suddenly wary. "Why?"

Mac decided to risk a little to get a little. " Was it Nadia Pletskya? I think we may be after the same thing."

Craig obviously wasn't ready to trust MacGyver, because all he said was: "The only thing I'm after is getting out of this bloody cell."

"I'm with you on that," agreed Mac. "I tried a hairpin in the lock. No good."

"No, that lock is stiff and old," agreed Craig.

"You've tried?" asked Mac.

"Yes, before they knocked me out again." Craig sounded exhausted, and Mac guessed the man hadn't eaten for several days.

Mac kelt and began to explore the old iron bars. They were welded to a flat piece of iron which was bolted to the stone floor. As he neared the back wall on the left side of the cell, he discovered a musty pool of water that touched the bars on the outside of the cell. It had obviously stood there for some time, because the bottoms of several of the bars crumbled under his fingers from years of rust.

"Hey," said Mac, "I think we might have a way out!"


	6. Chapter 6

Together, the two men took hold of the thick iron bars. Luckily, the rust had crept several feet up the last two bars, making them much weaker, and together they were able to break one and bend the other outward until they had a hole large enough to squeeze through.

"Damn, I can't believe I didn't see those," commented Craig. "I looked around this whole place, but this corner was so dark I didn't think to check for rust."

"One of the few advantages to seeing with your fingers, I guess," grunted MacGyver, who was in the process of squeezing himself through the narrow hole. Once outside, he sat for a moment, leaning his head against the cold stone wall. It suddenly hit him that he'd come straight from a transatlantic flight without resting or having much of a meal. He felt dizzy, and took a few deep breaths. Beside him, Craig stood shakily.

"We're both in pretty sorry shape," commented MacGyver. "We ought to find a place to lay low for a while; and find something to eat."

"I know of a place," said Craig tersely, but swore as he hit his shoulder on the corner of the crypt cell. "Finding it might pose a bit of a problem," he said wryly.

"Well, where are we now?" asked MacGyver.

"We're not far from the Royal Opera House, that I know," answered Craig. "Which churches are nearby? No, I can't be."

"What?" asked Mac in bewilderment. Not having a map of London in his head, he wasn't sure what Craig meant.

"St. Paul's itself," stated Craig flatly. "We're nearly there. Help me find the stairs before those fiends come back."

Mac grinned to himself that he was the more sighted of the two, but he found Craig's outstretched arm, and with Craig's hand on his shoulder, Mac fumbled toward the door where he'd descended not long before.

It seemed like hours of stumbling before the two found their way to the sanctuary, where they hugged the wall, trying to avoid drawing the attention of the tourists. At last they found the entrance, and emerged into daylight, looking, Mac thought, as though they had crawled out of a sewer. London foot traffic, being accustomed to all sorts of people, took no notice.

"To the right," said Craig through his teeth. Mac felt for the stairs with his toe, wishing fervently for his cane. They descended cautiously, and he turned right, following the light gray stone facade of the building. When they heard traffic in front of them, Craig said, "Left."

They stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the street listening to cars whiz by, neither daring to step into the maelstrom. Finally, a light must have turned down the road, because the cars became slightly less frequent. This time, it was Craig who gritted his teeth and led the way. A few honks and a few voices calling, "Oi! Watch it Mate!" and they were across. Craig sank to his knees.

Mac heaved him to his feet as a passerby commented, "Drunk! At this hour!" and passed with a huff.

Mac rolled his eyes. The phrase Blind Drunk had been tossed at him once too many times already, and he didn't even drink.

"I could use a stiff one," Craig said with a half smile in his voice. Mac said nothing.

"Where from here?" asked Mac.

"Left to the corner, then right. There's a pub, called Temples. Nice name, eh?" said Craig.

"Now how am I going to find that?" asked Mac in disgust.

It turned out to be easier than he had anticipated. They found the corner, then turned up the street. They hadn't gone far, when Craig bellowed, "This Temple's?"

"You've already had a pint too many, wot?" laughed a passerby. "But yeah, that's yer stop."

"Heaven bless ye," slurred Craig, playing the drunk to perfection.

He and Mac stumbled up the four stone steps to the front door. Once inside, a motherly voice accompanied hurried footsteps coming toward them.

"Mr Craig! You look like the devil himself! What happened to you?"

Through his palm on the man's shoulder, Mac could feel Craig relax somewhat.

"I can't see, Luv," he said quietly, Just get us out of here," he said to the woman.

"Of course, of course," she said hurriedly, and took his arm to lead him through the maze of patrons and tables. Mac was too tired to follow exactly what was happening, but he was dimly aware of some stairs, a hallway, a door that closed, and a chair into which he sank gratefully. He was not aware of sleeping until he awoke with a jerk. Something on a table to his right smelled divine, and nearby, presumably on a bed, Craig snored loudly.

Mac sat up, and carefully found the edge of the table with the backs of his knuckles as he had learned. He gingerly explored the tabletop and discovered a glass of water, which he gratefully drank, a bottle of beer, which he left, and a sandwich on a plate. Hardly pausing to taste it, he wolfed it down.

Sensing an urgent need, he next got up to find a bathroom. Luckily, a door to his right revealed what he needed, and he took the time to wash his hands and face in the basin as well.

By this time, the snoring had stopped and the bed creaked.

"Morning," Mac joked feebly, although the fading light told him it was closer to evening.

"Have you eaten?" asked Craig.

"I did," answered Mac shortly. "Where are we?"

"Safe house," said Craig laconically.

"You're MI6, aren't you?" asked Mac directly. "You're one of the two missing agents."

"And I suppose that makes you CIA," said Craig a bit sardonically.

"Not exactly," said Mac. "I'm from the Phoenix Foundation. We do contract work."

"Well, that makes sense, I guess," admitted Craig.

Yeah, thought Mac. The CIA would never send a blind spy.

"I was indeed trying to contact Nadia Pletskya, as was my colleague. He, I think, was shot," said Craig, his voice not entirely even.

Did anyone ever get used to losing a friend? Thought Mac.

I was dumped into the crypt where you found me. "I'm not sure how many days it's been."

"Four," said Mac. "Five, now."

"And they sent you?" questioned Craig.

"Hey, I can see better than you can, buddy!" quipped Mac.

Craig wasn't amused. "I was not referring to your eyesight. But you are American."

"Yeah, we have an interest in meeting Miss Nadia as well," said Mac vaguely.

"Looks like we're allies for the time being, then," said Craig. "Did you learn anything?"

"She left in a hurry," said Mac. "You?"

"I was there the night she performed. I was careless. I tried to go back toward her dressing room, pretending to be a fan, but of course they found me out," Craig said.

"The lady at the ticket counter, the one who handed me over, said something about new shoes. Do you suppose there was a message in the shoes?" wondered Mac.

"Why would she give you information and then hand you over to the heavies?" asked Craig skeptically.

"Maybe she didn't know she was," answered Mac.

"It wouldn't hurt to check it out," said Craig.

It suddenly struck both of them how much sight would help in this instance. Mac was the first to answer their mutual unspoken thought. "We'll figure out a way."

"My sight is returning, I think," said Craig. "I can see light now."

"That's a good sign," was all Mac could bring himself to say. He thought, since we ought to be taking you to a hospital, not chasing after ballet shoes. He also found himself pierced with a stab of envy. Craig was going to see again. Soon.

He shook that thought off as old, worn out and useless. Time to get going. Craig was rummaging in a closet, swearing to himself as he tried to identify pieces of clothing by touch. Mac tucked in his shirt and straightened the collar on his leather jacket, hoping he didn't look as disheveled as he felt.

Craig was soon ready, and the two made their way out of the small room into the dark, upstairs hallway. Craig was seeing more details all the time, for this time he confidently took the lead. They headed back down the stairs and into the pub where he paused to sidle up to the bar.

"You'll do," approved the woman behind the counter, the same one who had taken them upstairs. Apparently, Craig and she exchanged some unspoken communication that Mac wasn't able to catch, because shortly Craig turned away from the bar and headed toward the door. Mac, stumbled, following, and Craig paused until Mac could place a hand on his elbow. Mac felt oddly grateful for his companion's recent experience since he knew how it felt. Not disorienting, not like at first, but just not enough damn information coming in.

Outside, twilight had deepened into early nightfall, and Mac felt grateful for the lack of light, although he could make out no details of the street around him.

"Which shop?" asked Craig, taking a deep breath of air.

"Started with an F," said Mac, trying to remember.

"Not much to go on," commented Craig. "Probably this way."

"How are your eyes?" asked Mac, as Craig led the way along the street back toward the cathedral.

"Blurry, but I can manage," said Craig shortly.

At the moment, Mac could see blackness punctuated by a single orange street lamp, so to him blurry sounded like a big improvement.

The two walked silently along another street, for several blocks until Craig turned to his right. He stopped, squinting up at a shop sign, muttering to himself as he tried to make it out.

"C. A. P. E. Z. I. O." He slowly spelled out the letters he could barely see.

"Nope, that wasn't the name," said Mac.

Craig turned in frustration. The foot traffic was thinner now, but he found someone to stop and ask directions.

"Ballet shoes? I think I saw one down that way," said the woman, and hurried on.

Craig led the way the woman had pointed and stopped near another corner.

"Pardon, what's the name of this shop?" asked MacGyver of a passerby.

"Freed of London," said the man, obviously in a hurry.

"That's it," said Mac with enthusiasm. "That's the name of the shop the ticket taker mentioned."

"It's dark. Closed," said Craig. "We'll have to try tomorrow."

"They assigned me an apartment," said Mac, "but the guys took my bag and with it the address and key to the place."

"That's no longer viable, then," agreed Craig. "Come to my flat for tonight. We'll sort you out tomorrow."

Mac didn't know how to show his gratitude, and suddenly Craig seemed like a friend. Craig led the way to the nearest Tube entrance. Mac had heard about the new subway system, and he was impressed as the two boarded the train. Craig was still having trouble reading the signs, but they managed to get off at the right stop, and headed into a small, dead-end street crowded with houses. Craig, whose keys had been stolen by his attackers, nevertheless had a spare hidden, and it wasn't long before the two were relaxing on a leather sofa and munching leftover baked beans on toast from Craig's refrigerator.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, after a shower, a shave, and a hot breakfast, MacGyver felt much more like himself again. He sat down on the couch to wait for Craig to finish his shower.

While he sat, he began to think about the facts of the case. A few details had begun to bother him, but he hadn't had time until now to examine them.

First of all, Pete had mentioned the assignment two weeks ago before he'd started the rehab course. But Nadia had only asked for help six days ago. How had Pete known about the mission? And why hadn't he called Harris?

Then, there was another detail. Harris has said both men abducted from the theatre were American. But Pete had identified one as MI6, and Craig was obviously not an American. Why had Harris misled him on that detail? Or was Craig not who he seemed to be?

a

At this moment, Craig himself emerged from the shower rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

"Feels bloody good," he said to no one in particular.

"How well can you see this morning?" asked MacGyver.

"A bit blurred here and there but mostly back to normal," answered Craig, and Mac again felt the sharp twinge of jealousy. "My head still aches but it's nothing that a bit of Paracetamol can't cure."

Mac flashed what he hoped was a genuine smile. Craig flipped the switch on the television as he passed it, and a morning news program came on. Craig continued into the kitchen.

"I'll ring up Freed and find out when they open," said Craig from around the doorway. Mac had the same idea but not being able to read the telephone directory had frustrated the plan.

Instead, he listened to the newscaster on the television.

"...found last week with a gunshot wound to the chest outside the Royal Opera House. He is believed to be an American staying in London on holiday. Investigators believe he met with foul play, but evidence exists that there may have been terrorist activity and citizens are advised to use caution in the area..."

"Craig!" called Mac. "Is this your partner or someone else?"

Craig hurried back into the room to look at the screen. "My partner, poor bastard," he said grimly.

"Did you get a look at the men that did it?" queried MacGyver.

"No," admitted Craig. "But they spoke a language I didn't recognize."

"My kidnappers spoke English," mused MacGyver. "British accents."

Craig laughed. "There is no such thing as a British accent. Even the different boroughs of London have distinct accents."

"Well, they weren't American," said Mac peevishly.

"Possibly not the same guys then," said Craig. "By the way, Freed opens at ten."

The newscaster broke into the conversation. "...in other news, the ballet world was stunned this morning to learn that the world-famous Russian ballerina, Nadia Pletskya, has been taken ill and will be unable to continue her European tour. Her tour manager gave a statement informing the BBC that she will be resting in her Moscow home.

"Resting," snorted MacGyver. "We have to find her. She must be in danger."

Craig agreed. "The slippers are a slim clue," he said.

"Better than nothing," said MacGyver. "Ready to go?"

On their way to the shop, Mac stopped at a bank where Pete had promised to wire him some money and a new passports . This accomplished, they continued to the Tube, and then on to the shop, Craig acting as guide. Mac, who still didn't have a cane, held lightly to Craig's elbow.

"Weren't you worried about going blind yesterday?" asked Mac as they walked.

"Of course," answered Craig, "but we train for such possibilities."

"Still, it's frightening," persisted Mac.

"Yes," agreed Craig.

They arrived at the shop, and Craig pushed open the corner door. Inside, Mac had a vague impression of racks and tables, presumably holding shoes and leotards and whatever else the shop sold. He put out one hand, and it brushed across stiff satin.

"May I help you?" asked a man with a somewhat affectedly posh accent as he came toward them. "You would be better off with an appointment so we can fit your shoes properly," he continued, somewhat distastefully, as if he was aware the two men did not move like dancers.

"We need to speak with you privately," said Craig.

"This way," said the man. "I have a fitting in thirty minutes, however," he said.

He led the way past a tall counter, which clipped Mac's elbow as he passed. He winced, but said nothing. They entered a back room, which Mac at first took to be an office, but soon decided was a fitting room. They found chairs and sat down, Craig expelling a breath as he did so. Mac wondered how much pain the man was still having.

"I'm MacGyver, and this is Craig," Mac began.

"Thomas," said the shopkeeper.

"Mr. Thomas," said MacGyver, "Last week you sold Nadia Pletskya a new pair of ballet shoes. We need to know…"

He was cut off. "Mr. MacGyver," Thomas interrupted. "What do you want with Miss Pleaskya?"

"We're trying to help her," said MacGyver.

"How do you know she needs help?" asked Thomas distrustfully.

Mac told the man about the roses.

Thomas seemed to be making up his mind about something. "Come with me," he said.

He led the way through another door in the back of the room. Craig took Mac's arm, pushing him quickly along. Mac clenched his teeth but said nothing.

Because he was in front of Craig, he stumbled when they came unexpectedly to a narrow stair, and he slammed his hands against the walls to keep from falling.

"Sorry," Craig muttered, but Mac was already most of the way down the stairs. The room at the bottom was dimmer than the upstairs had been, and he found himself listening closely to the footsteps hurrying in front of him. They stopped across the room, and a doorknob turned.

"Natya," said Thomas quietly, and opened the door wider. Craig came up beside Mac and gasped.

"This is Natalia Petrov, better known as Nadia Pletskya," said Thomas.

From a tiny room, a small, slight woman emerged and grasped Mac's outstretched hand. "So pleased to meet you," she said in careful English.

"Natalia," said MacGyver in amazement. "You're here in London? The news said you were ill and on your way to Moscow."

"Dimitry must have told that story to cover up for my disappearance," she said thoughtfully.

"Why did you ask for help?" Asked Mac.

"Is a long story. How do I know I can trust you?" She asked pragmatically.

MacGyver realized that with his bag he'd lost his credentials and had little to show her to prove himself to her.

At this moment the shop bell tinkled upstairs and Thomas excused himself. Natalia ushered the two men into the closet-like room where she had been hiding and closed the door. Mac tried again to explain to her who he was.

"My name is MacGyver," he began, pulling out his replaced passport.

At this moment, Craig began to sway, and then toppled over in a heap.

"Oh! Your friend!" cried Natalia, sitting by him. "He fainted!"

Mac also knelt by Craig and found his pulse in his neck. It felt weak but it was there. "Is he pale?" asked Mac.

"Why do you ask me?" asked Natalie, startled. "Cannot you see him?"

"No, I can't," said Mac. "He was hit on the head yesterday hard enough to temporarily lose his sight. This may be related. Check his pupils."

"Pupils?" she asked in confusion.

"His eyes," said Mac shortly.

"Why are you not look at his eyes?" asked Natalia, her English slipping in her excitement.

"I can't see," answered Mac again. "I was blinded in an explosion."

"But you said he was blind," said Natalia.

"No time now to explain. We need to get him to a hospital right away," said Mac.

"I cannot be found here," cried Natalia in terror.

"No, no. We won't let anyone find you," said Mac. "Stay here and I'll come back as soon as I can."

Craig was not a tall man, but he was heavy, and Mac grunted as he pulled the man upward into a fireman's carry. He realized that he needed to get away from Natalia before he called for help or she might be placed in even greater danger. He felt torn between helping her get to a safer place and hearing her story, and getting medical care for Craig. Frustrated, he decided on the second and opened the door to carry Craig out of the basement room.

"Is there a back door?" He whispered to Natalia.

"I do not know," she whispered back, and closed her door fearfully.

Steadying Craig with one hand, he used the other to trail the wall, trying desperately to remember where the stairs were. At last he found them and ascended into the fitting room where he located a chair on which to deposit Craig's limp form. Luckily the fitting room was still empty.

Mac felt his way to the door of the shop and called Thomas's name softly.

"Mr. MacGyver!" said Thomas a bit too cheerily. "How is the fit on those new jazz shoes?"

"I need you to come take a look," said Mac, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

Thomas came in promptly but stopped short when he saw Craig.

"Oh dear!" he cried in dismay.

"I need to get him help, but quietly, you understand?" said MacGyver tersely.


End file.
